


How to Win Friends and Influence Goldfish

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2016 [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Disillusionment, Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Hope, Introvert Mycroft, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7560316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before Sherlock thought John was an idiot, all he knew was Mycroft.  And before his first term at Eton, all Mycroft knew was Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Win Friends and Influence Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> For Watson's Woes Prompt July 22nd: Shine yer shoes, Guvnor? (Child's POV)

“Shut _up_ , Sherlock!” hissed Mycroft from across the table.

Sherlock blinked back the tears stinging in his eyes at the unexpected rebuke.  He had to bite on his lip to hold in the rest of the deduction of Mycroft’s visit to the pastry shop while he’d waited for the train (custard slice, no, _two_ custard slices: vanilla cream on the sleeve of his blazer, pastry flakes on his trousers).  Had Mycroft thought he wouldn’t notice?  Sherlock was nearly _seven_ , now.  He might be an idiot, but he wasn’t going to miss anything _that_ obvious!

“Mycroft!” snapped Mummy.

“Apologies,” muttered Mycroft with rampant insincerity, and then glared at Sherlock as soon as Mummy turned away.

“He doesn’t mean it!” protested Sherlock, the presence of Mycroft’s obvious lie settling over the table and making him queasy.  He pushed away his plate, mostly untouched, and sank down in his seat as Mummy’s stern gaze landed on him, too. 

He’d missed Mycroft.  Been looking forward to him coming home from his first term at Eton for months, to hearing him being _brilliant_ , and setting easy little puzzles for Sherlock to solve.  This sullenly touchy  _white lying_ brother was not who he remembered. 

“ _And_ he’s fat,” sulked Sherlock.  “ _More_ fat.  Three pounds in four months.  He’s been _cheating_ on the diet you sent to the school nutritionist.  And he _did_ —”

“Sherlock,” Mummy warned him.  “Your brother has been working very hard to manage his weight.  And what have we said about deducing at the dinner table?”

“Sorry, Mycroft,” Sherlock managed bitterly, avoiding his brother’s smugly raised eyebrow and ostentatious bite of roast beef. 

“No more of this now, boys, it’s nearly Christmas,” said Mummy.  She divided a cautionary look evenly between the two of them.  “Goodness, you’ve always got on so well!  What’s got into you both?  No!  I don’t want to hear it.  Mycroft, why don’t you tell us about school?  Did you make some new friends?”

“No.”  Mycroft curled his lip, and then obviously reconsidered his answer at the look on Mummy’s face.  “Yes,” he corrected himself, with a bright false smile.  “Apparently I’m _very_ popular.”

“That’s lovely!” said Mummy, apparently oblivious.  “I knew it would do you good to socialise a bit more!”

Mycroft intercepted Sherlock’s protest with a small shake of his head, and Sherlock subsided into his seat, stung again.  He stared fixedly at the tablecloth in front of him while Mycroft nattered on in obvious half-truths that left bruises in his ears. 

Apparently Mycroft didn’t want to play deductions anymore.  He was playing a different game.

***

“Why didn’t you eat your secret treat _carefully_ , if you didn’t want me to say anything?” demanded Sherlock, following Mycroft up the stairs after Mummy had finally released them from the table.  “You’re the smart one!”

“I _am_ the smart one,” said Mycroft.  He pushed open the door of his room, loosened his tie and flopped down onto the bed like an exhausted starfish.  “Apparently more than we knew.”

Sherlock frowned at him, at the careless crumples he was making in his clothes, the crumbs on his trousers, the spots on his sleeves, the buttons of his three month old blazer straining over his expanded stomach.

“You’ve been _baiting_ people,” he said, realising.  He sat on the end of Mycroft’s bed and pulled his legs up, trying not to take up too much of his brother’s space.  “Deliberately leaving evidence—not just for me to practice, for everyone.  Even _Mummy_!”

“Yes, _of course_ I have.”  Mycroft sat up abruptly, livid with frustration.  “And it was _two_ custard slices at the train station bakery, not one.  Note the overlapping smears on the sleeve, one fully dried before the other?”

“I knew that!” protested Sherlock.

“Yes, well.”  Mycroft gave him a measuring glance, apparently weighing his sincerity, and then subsided back onto his bed.  “No one else would have.  Even the teachers.  Even _Mummy_ , apparently.  It’s ghastly out there, Sherlock.  The brightest and best children in the land, every useful contact for the future that I have to smile and make friends with, and they’re _all_ idiots, every one.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, hugging his knees and hoping deep down.  “Like me?”

“ _Not_ like you,” groaned Mycroft.  He covered his eyes with his elbow.  “ _Worse_.  So much worse.  I have to hide out in the library half the time just so they don’t _talk_ to me.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock again. 

“Go away, Sherlock,” his brother sighed.  “I really don’t have the energy to patronise another idiot at the moment.”

Poor Mycroft, thought Sherlock as he slipped down from his brother’s bed and out of the room.  He did find it excruciating when Sherlock was dull.  It must have been torture spending four months with children even slower than him clamouring for his attention. 

It didn’t sound so bad to Sherlock, though.  It might be nice to be the smart one, occasionally.  And it had been a lonely few months as Mummy’s only student, without Mycroft and the dumbed down deduction puzzles he constructed to keep Sherlock occupied.  He’d been bored out of his mind without them, and apparently now Mycroft wasn’t even going to want to play with him when he came home. 

Well.  If Mycroft’s eating habits had passed unnoticed among the idiots at school, they’d probably be leaving plenty of evidence to deduce all over them, even if it _wasn’t_ on purpose.  Perhaps he should ask Mummy if he could start next year with the other seven-year-olds, rather than waiting for Eton like Mycroft had.

Perhaps, if Mycroft _was_ right about the other children being so stupid, which obviously he had to be even if the idea seemed implausible...  Perhaps, if Sherlock tried his very hardest...  Perhaps there was a chance that Sherlock’s roommate might even think _he_ was brilliant, just like Mycroft.

He had the rest of this year to work on Mummy.  And to work on his deductions.  He was going to have to make sure he was able to see _everything_ at a glance, like Mycroft always did, if he was going to make an impression. 

And maybe even a friend.


End file.
